


One Last Thing

by daphnerunning



Category: Magi: The Labyrinth of Magic
Genre: M/M, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 20:42:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daphnerunning/pseuds/daphnerunning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After conquering the seventh dungeon, Sinbad isn't sure what challenges there are left for him. Ja'far has a few ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Thing

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a doujin collaboration with my lovely Gali.

“Your Majesty, please get up.”

Sinbad cracks one eye open, the very picture of injured somnolence. “But I’m tired for a good reason. You should be taking care of your king.”

“I referred to you by title. That usually makes you happy.”

Sinbad’s body aches a little in a way he’d usually only associate with having conquered a dungeon—something that, apparently, is forbidden to him forever now. He pushes that uncomfortable revelation aside, reaching instead for Ja’far’s wrist. The young man is lightning-fast, but Sinbad catches him anyway, dumping him onto his back on the bed.

Ja’far squeaks, a noise more suited to a mouse than a former assassin, and it only serves to rouse the blood in Sinbad’s body, coaxing it out of a place of anger and into the light. Better, to focus on the softness of Ja’far’s skin, on the noises he makes when Sinbad is running a hand up one pale leg, than on the fact that something he’d once thought would be his  _forever_  is closed to him now.

Ja’far squirms underneath him, little squeaks and breathy noises that are sort of unlike him, but good. He struggles a bit when Sinbad pushes up his robes, an instinctive, nervous twitching when Sinbad’s thumb runs across one of the scars on his leg.

“Shh. Let me.”

Ja’far is letting him. They both know that, that if Ja’far wanted Sinbad off of him, he’d be off of him. If it came to an actual fight, Sinbad would win—probably—but Ja’far isn’t making it a fight. He’s wriggling around just enough to make Sinbad enjoy pinning him down, holding him to the bed with a broad hand on his belly as he kisses up the slightly ridged, puckered skin of a decade-old wound.

“S-Sin—”

Even if the little struggles are fake, they’re a good forgery, and the shivers when Sinbad touches the scars are real. Ja’far feels sorry for him, that’s obvious, and it just makes Sinbad want to see how far he can push it.

Ja’far’s eyes are squeezed tightly shut, the long lean muscles of his leg trembling in Sinbad’s grasp. “I wish you wouldn’t,” he says quietly, hands fisting in the sheets.

“I wish you wouldn’t hide them all the time. You should go around baring your skin for everyone to see, like Sharrkan.”

“No thank you, I’ll burn in the sun.” He trails off into another squeak, leg kicking involuntarily in Sinbad’s grip as his king’s lips trail up the inside of his calf, to his inner thigh, spreading them wide.

“One day,” Sinbad promises, even as Ja’far wriggles around, face flushed pink at the casual way Sinbad perches between his spread legs, “you’ll tell me all about where you came from.”

Ja’far’s little smile says more than anything that he doubts that. It’s the most genuine thing about him right now, even as his hands clench in Sinbad’s hair, urging him up for a kiss.

Any other day, knowing that Ja’far is urging him on out of pity instead of genuine desire would probably drive him to violence. Today, just today, it’s sort of nice to know that there’s someone who cares enough to humor him.

And god, he wants to push it.

He runs the tip of his tongue along the scars, even knowing that it makes Ja’far squirm. He looks straight at Ja’far’s face when he slides deep inside, knowing that Ja’far wants to turn his head away, knowing he hates the faces he makes.

“Is this my payment?” he finally asks, after Ja’far’s mouth falls open and he lets out a soft, needy cry. “I can’t conquer any more dungeons so you let me conquer you?”

Ja’far looks up, black eyes glinting in the soft light of the lamp. “An unfair trade, Your Majesty?” he asks, voice hitching and breathy.

Ja’far usually doesn’t like being kissed. Today, the taste of his lips drives Crocell’s words out of Sinbad’s head, the djinn’s ringing tones subsumed in a wash of panting moans that he usually has to work harder for than he has to conquer any dungeon since Baal.

Sinbad tangles his hands in the red wires wrapped around Ja’far’s forearms, pinning them above his head as he moves, rolling his hips until Ja’far groans in a way that’s entirely unfeigned, something hungry, lonely and wanting in his eyes.

Somehow, it’s almost enough to see that desire changed into something satiated, something complete. His own release is secondary, something good, but not an achievement like seeing Ja’far’s normally tight-lipped expression mutated into ungoverned ecstasy.

He rests his forehead on Ja’far’s, a rueful grin stretching his lips. “You’re probably happy.”

“What, that you’ll stop running around the world throwing yourself into danger and finally have time to do your own paperwork? Not at all.”

Sinbad has to laugh. Maybe being  _just_  a king isn’t quite as bad as all that after all.

The breeze rustles through the room, a slight chill driving them under the blankets, curled up in Sinbad’s hair and Ja’far’s wires, only one of which they can remove for sleep, neither of which they  _do_. On the windowsill outside, balanced on the tips of his toes, Judal stares through the thin silk of the curtains.

 _That_ , something deep in him says, an aching remembrance of something he used to want, back when he remembered what wanting was. He’d raised dungeons, good ones, to make this man into something strong, something hard and glittering and unbreakable, a dark gem to show him a reflection of himself he’d love to look at. Now his potential is fulfilled, and there’s nothing to do but chip at the rough until every part of him shines, tempered by anger and pain the way Judal has been, until there’s no part of him that doesn’t shine.

_I want that._


End file.
